


Deep Roots

by misura



Category: Tolkien (2019)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21847381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: "It'll be all right, Ronald," Geoffrey repeats. "You'll be fine. I've got you."
Relationships: Geoffrey Bache Smith/J.R.R. Tolkien
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2019





	Deep Roots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merle_p](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/gifts).

"Come inside now, there's a good fellow," Geoffrey says, and Tolkien lets himself be dragged, lets the sound of the words wash over him come-in-side-now-theres-a-good-fel-low - it's not cellar door, he doesn't think, not even remotely, but the emotion, the intent behind them is lovely all the same.

"Geoffrey," he says, picking at the name, trying to track its roots, its deeper meaning. "Geoffrey."

Geoffrey smiles at him - no sounds at all, but plenty of meaning; the reverse of a meaningless word. "It'll be all right, Ronald. You'll see."

_I don't want to see,_ Tolkien thinks, feeling the way his legs barely seem to be able to keep him upright, the way Geoffrey is carrying both their weights. _I don't want to see - _ but of course not seeing doesn't equal not-knowing, not-happening, not-being-real.

The words are out there, on the invitation - _'I am getting married'_. He can't change them, Geoffrey can't change them, no one can change them.

"There," Geoffrey says, and Tolkien vaguely realizes they're in his room, Geoffrey's room. There's a lot of paper, most of it scribbled on, and part of him wants to read all of it, to lose himself in Geoffrey's wonderful words and beautiful feelings. "Lay down for a bit, yeah?"

It would be more dignified, he supposes, than getting drunk and yelling on the lawn.

He shakes his head, reaching for the nearest piece of paper, but Geoffrey takes it away, kindly, gently.

"You're very, very drunk. You need to sleep it off."

_How can I sleep when Edith - _ Tolkien wants to ask, but that's selfish. Geoffrey is his friend, his dearest friend, a brilliant poet and the best of all of them; why should Tolkien burden him with this any more than he already has?

Geoffrey is beautiful, inside and outside both. There's a magic to Geoffrey, something sweet and glorious, something that doesn't shine but is golden nonetheless, to those with eyes to see, ears to hear, the senses to experience Geoffrey's poetry for what it is.

Tolkien sighs, letting Geoffrey press him down onto the bed, pull the blankets over him as if this is his bed, not Geoffrey's.

"It'll be all right, Ronald," Geoffrey repeats. "You'll be fine. I've got you."

"As you have me," Tolkien says, reaching out for Geoffrey's hand to hold it in his. "As you have me, my dearest of friends, my foremost of brothers."

Geoffrey smiles at him and says, "I don't know what that means, but it sounds beautiful," and Tolkien realizes he's spoken in a language other than English, or Latin, or any of the other languages Geoffrey would be able to understand. "Thank you."

"You are the best friend any man might ask for," Tolkien tells Geoffrey, hoping it comes out in English this time. "I'm the one who's grateful for that, for knowing you, for having you here, with me."

"Well, with the amount of ruckus you were making, I figured someone had better do something." Geoffrey shakes his head. "I get that you're upset, truly I do, but - "

Tolkien kisses him. He doesn't mean to, he thinks, it simply happens, and once it's happened, it feels too right to take it back, to pretend he hasn't. Geoffrey doesn't move, doesn't even seem to breathe, and Tolkien wonders if maybe he's lost Geoffrey, too, now, if this is his punishment for losing Edith. "Geoff," he says, trying to find the right words, the proper phrases and language, "I - "

"You," Geoffrey says, "are very, very drunk. Clearly, you're quite out of it."

_Clearly, I'm an idiot,_ Tolkien thinks, though what he says is, "Not that drunk," and Geoffrey gives him this look that's gently reproachful, like he knows there's a difference between what Tolkien thinks and what he's saying, a disconnect between words and meaning.

It feels right to try again, better than to have this stand between them always. "Geoffrey. I - " _I love you,_ but isn't that what he told Edith, what he thought of Edith? and is this not different from that? He's known them both, Tolkien thinks, simultaneously; there must be a difference.

Geoffrey looks at him for a while, waiting, Tolkien thinks, and then he leans forward, just a bit, as slow and deliberate as a tree, if trees were able to move and talk and love, and then they are kissing again, and Tolkien thinks that if his mouth were not otherwise occupied, he might have found the right words to explain how he feels.

"There, that's you shut up, then," Geoffrey says. "Though I'm sure you'll be back to talking tomorrow morning, and with quite a hang-over, I shouldn't wonder. Still, that's for tomorrow to worry about, isn't it? Now, let me go and find an extra blanket, and we can keep each other company for a bit."

"You could - " Tolkien says. Their hands are still entwined. He imagines pulling Geoffrey closer, the two of them sharing the bed, skin-to-skin, like shieldmates finding shelter together.

"No, I couldn't," Geoffrey says. "Not with you in such a state, and I don't just mean drunk, Ronald, though there's that, too. I mean this thing with Edith as well."

"I kissed you," Tolkien says, feeling Geoffrey's hand slip away. "And you kissed me back, and that is what it means, to love."

Geoffrey groans. "English, for God's sake. At this time of night, it must be English, have some mercy, please," and Tolkien hears himself giggle and then sob, and then Geoffrey's there again, holding him, kissing him, until he knows no more.


End file.
